Stockholm Syndrome
by SutekiKage
Summary: Warning: Mild Gore; There were many things that France regretted doing in his life, but the most heart wrenching would have to be when France fell in love with his little Canada. An intimate study


**Title:** Stockholm Syndrome**  
Author:** SutekiKage**  
Characters:** France-centric?; FrancexUK; AmericaxCanada; FrancexCanada; Spain and mentions of Pre-Columbian Era nations**  
Rating:** PG-13, but some scenes are explicit violence wise (Those are probably PG-15).**  
Warnings:** Boy love? Be warned, tis' angsts to the EXTREME, and horribly butchered historical facts cause I'm too lazy to check their authenticity.**  
Summary:** An intimate study of Canada and France's relationship, which is a lot more complicated then is let on. (+Dabs of family relationships)

Author note - ANGSTANGSTANGSTANGST (and a pinch of gore)

Here, lemme sprinkle some more angst on you so you'll get the point, cause glitter's horrible to get out.

**.,x.{Start}.x,.**

France wasn't exactly 22 when he had found out about the new world. There was a general buzz that had graced his courts about the matter, and he himself felt anticipation when he had finally landed in this bizarre new land the natives called Kana'ta.

What he found even more fascinating were the people that greeted him as he stepped onto the golden-brown sand; not quite dry, but not quite damp as well.

His first impression was that, he didn't know what to think. They reminded him of the Africans and Indians, yet at the same time, they were definitely of a different nature. He took a cautious step towards the group and looked for their leader, unsure of what else to do.

A tall, dark and possibly, no, probably the strongest of the group stepped forward and touched him gently on his shoulder as he spoke, "Tansi," he had greeted. He was beautiful, with the calmest brown eyes that France had ever seen.

There were no hidden intention in those eyes, so dark and clear.

As the man continued talking, Francis immediately broke out in gesture; he tried to tell the man that he did not understand a word he was saying. His interpreter stepped forward, the man, Jack Makenzie, was British, and had been here many times before. He was lent to him by Britain before he left.

"He says that you're welcome into his area and that he hopes you two will get along." France immediately understood that the man was like him, a human that did not belong in this plane of existence. From what England and Spain have told him, this new land was represented by four of these beings, each was named after the winds.

He smiled as the man gestured for them to follow.

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

Death had clawed through his men when they had first arrived, this was over half decade ago. Of course, Francis was not here to witness this, but felt their agony snaking through his very core. The man that had approached him before was the one that had saved the dying explorers, and for that, France was grateful.

So of course, when the man's people were slowly dying off, he didn't know what to do except accept the man's reassuring words that, as Makenzie had translated to be, "I am fine, do not worry friend."

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

Chinook, as he had found out to be the man's name, which is rather ironic since his name did not fit with his strong appearance, stayed together for most of the time France came to visit. The only reason they had to separate was when they had important matters to attend to, like fighting England over borderlines or maybe hunting for food for the tribe-sometimes France would go with the Aboriginal for this.

Francis offered European knowledge in exchange for methods to survive in the harsh terrain. He himself had forgotten long ago what it had meant to live off the land like a savage, free. Somehow, he grew reminiscent recalling those days where basic survival was earned through worrying about staying alive and pure ability. But he couldn't possibly remember that, he wasn't that old. He was probably recalling memories from a nation before him.

He shook the thought out of his head, right now he just wanted to enjoy his time with Chinook. This was one of those rare occasions where France could share a spiritual moment with the man, they were in a small hut akin to a sauna, sweat and the smell of smoke suffocated them, yet they embraced the feeling it brought them.

A comfortable silence passed over them before he heard the language of the Cree being directed towards him.

"What do you see, my friend?" It was the two of them, Makenzie had long since returned to Arthur's side, but he had taught France and Chinook enough for them to communicate in simplistic sentences.

Francis looked towards the smoke trail that the bigger man was pointing at as it drifted out the minuscule hole in the ceiling. He had found the activity of reading smoke to figure out how to live to be rather idiotic at the time, but soon grew to respect it as a way of survival.

"I see...a beautiful man." He muttered softly as he looked through the smoke towards Chinook. His eyes were glazed like his and contained no desires, which caused something in France to pang in yearning.

Chinook chuckled, "I see..." He quieted and looked grim.

"What is it?" Francis grew worried, when the man became like this, it meant his people were fighting somewhere. Chinooks predictions were something he learned to trust, like England's black magic and China's strange medicinal cures.

"I see a new life that is quickly approaching you." He finished, watching as the smoke morphed into something new.

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"It is a good thing, a very good thing."

France wasn't assured.

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

They were camping outside, Chinook had never gotten used to sleeping in cots so Francis got accustomed to the man's needs.

Underneath the bear skin, they stared at the stars, "It's the start of the harvesting season soon." The Aboriginal commented, tracing his finger over the paths of the lights above them.

"I'll help," Francis offered, it'd give him something to do during the summer/fall season besides go back to Europe during its putrid heat strokes.

The other man nodded in silent agreement and turned away to show that he was going to sleep.

Suddenly, France felt very much alone. He lifted himself up and moved closer to the bare chest man and lied curled next to his big back.

Chinook shuffled, turned around and looked at the blond, "You are like a child."

Francis scowled.

Chinook smiled and kissed him.

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

This wasn't supposed to happen, the man was strong!

Sure, his brother in the south had died even though he was a brute, and his brother in the east was on the brink of death even as Francis was pacing outside the medicine man's hut, but this was Chinook! He had survived through the coldest winters France knew of (besides Russia's) and the animals up here were still plentiful enough to keep him healthy.

So why was the man dying?!

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

There was some shuffling on the other side of the animal skin flap. It lifted to show an almost skeletal like man.

"...Chinook?"

When had he grown so thin?

The man walked past him at a hobble, using a large walking stick as his support.

"Chinook?!"

Where the hell was he going?!

Francis strode up to him and grabbed his arm, "You need to rest!" His voice quivered, he was scared.

Chinook pushed him aside. That shocked Francis enough to stop what he was doing, he gave out a small, fetal sound. Chinook didn't even spare a glance.

The man had been angry at the Frenchman before and they had their share of arguments but the Aboriginal had _never_ physically shown his emotions towards France before. Francis looked around desperately.

"Please..." He whispered to himself, "Please!" He cried to the man's fellow tribesmen, he walked over to the medicine man and shook him, "PLEASE!"

All the other man did was shake his head solemnly and retreat into the hut.

The other villagers soon followed suit, grimly ignoring France's requests for help.

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

"Chinook!" He had caught up to the bulkier man, returning to pulling the man back towards the village. It didn't even budge him.

Chinook was wheezing, his hair falling in locks around his now sullen cheeks as he trudged on.

"Please go back, Chinook! If you continue like this, you'll die!"

"That is what I am doing."

France froze, "What?" His grip disappeared as he watched the man slowly hobbling away from him, deeper into the forest.

"I will return to the Earth the way I came." His voice was a lot raspier then last he remembered.

Suddenly, the man fell over and he cried out in pain. Francis rushed over and helped the man up, "I'll go get help!"

The blond made to go back towards the village but a too thin hand grabbed at his garments and pulled him back down, "Wait..."

"What is there to wait for?! They must know you're dying! They have to help!" Francis seethed; the man's actions weren't making sense.

"It is because they knew that I left them."

Francis looked down at him, too stunned to say anything.

An uncomfortable silence passed through them.

"Are you willing to do one last favor for your friend?" Chinook chuckled, which seemed like a bad idea as he soon broke out in a fit of coughs.

He nodded.

There was a relieved sigh, "Help me walk then."

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

The clearing was beautiful, "This is my earliest memory of this world," Chinook stated as he let go of Francis and tumbled into the ground.

The Frenchman looked around, the beauty of this place was like a rare jewel.

"Ashes to Ashes, that's what your brother told me." France observed the man, "I do not remember you ever meeting Arthur." he murmured.

"I did not want to tell you I was dying..." Francis sat down next to the man, "so I asked someone who I knew you were close to on how I should tell you."

The blond scoffed, "Arthur and I have nothing to do with each other."

Chinook let out a hoarse laugh, "That is not what I believe."

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

The man had died in his arms.

His last audible words were, "I can't be your Canada."

Francis' reply was, "I don't want any other..."

Chinook showed him one last beautiful smile as the life left his eyes. Francis shook him lightly, then more vigorously as the man didn't respond.

A thin hand fell to the ground from where it had been grasped so tightly before.

All he could do was shake as his hands covered his face.

Anguish jolted through him, but he did not cry.

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

_"I want you to take my heart when I die."_

_Francis had refused vehemently when the man had asked him, but Chinook gripped his arm so tightly and looked at him so pleadingly that he did not know how to refuse._

_"What would I do with it?" He whispered._

_"You'll understand when the time comes."_

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

He looked down at the well sculpted chest as he recalled the 'favor', and then back at the silver blade that was present in his hand.

In all the years that he's been holding a sword, this was the first time that it felt so foreign. With his other hand he looked for the location of the man's heart and sliced as little as possible.

There was a sickening squelch as he reached his hand into the man's chest and pulled out the muscle enough to cut the four aortas off. It moved in his hands as if still alive.

Francis dropped it in horror as he turned away to spew out nothing but bile.

Suddenly, the man's body started crumbling, small flowers instantly spurting out of the ground from where it fell. The blond watched as the flowers spread throughout the clearing to join their brethren. Then just as quickly, they wilted, and turned to ash.

He waited till the process finished before picking up the still-bleeding heart. It was the only thing that had survived. Francis ripped a piece of cloth from his shirt to wrap it up. The cloth instantly turned red, he ignored it and started walking back towards the village, body numb and tingling from the experience.

His death could never be as beautiful.

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

Chinook's tribe was dead; they had all quickly died off from strange illnesses that spread through the Aboriginal community like a flash flood.

For the next few months, they dropped like flies and Francis feared for them. He offered help, but was met with detest and scorn.

The blond was once again left alone in this large country and wondered if his ambitions were worth _this_.

But deep down, he knew it was a punishment that the European nations had to suffer over and over again as they looked to expand. They lived with guilt of forever knowing that they had killed the gods of that place.

That night, it was the first time after the country's death that he cried.

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

A few years had passed since that time, Arthur had apparently found a boy like them in the woods one day, huddled with many woodland creatures that didn't protest when he approached them.

When the British had told him this, they knew immediately that a new nation was forming and they were to be there to help it mature. He rushed over to the smaller man's house in the following week to see the boy, he would not be left out in the nation's upbringing.

A few consecutive knocks later, his hands were shaking, a rather flustered England answered the door and France had to dodge when he saw some burnt scones flung his way.

"I don't wanna eat this, papa!" The child was throwing a tantrum in the kitchen; he had straw blond hair and cerulean blue eyes as clear as the sky. France gasped when he saw them and stepped past the somewhat protesting British man.

"I see your cooking's horrible as always," he muttered as he picked up the whining child attentively. "Want Uncle Francis to cook you something?" He cooed.

England harrumphed.

"Is your cooking better then Arthur's?!"

"Mon cher, it is a hundred times better."

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

Alfred did not know about his Northern regions.

At first they thought the boy was confused, but after further questioning, the boy had said that his knowledge of that region was limited. How were they to bring up a nation if he was incomplete?

France had left that night, feeling like he had no significance in the greater scheme of things, yet at the same time relieved. Arthur probably knew it like he did, but kept quiet about the matter so as to not give the other country a chance to expand in case the other didn't know. There was another child waiting out there for them. Now it was just a matter of luck as to who would stumble on him first.

He felt anticipation surge through his bones,.

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

Francis and his team of explorers were stuck. Travelling west had become more tedious then they had expected and they had been at a stalemate with the terrain ever since.

He sighed as he looked at the map he and his men had charted out. He had to hurry; many other European nations were jumping at the chance to get a piece of this land that still had no owner. Technically, it had an owner, just that no one knew who it was yet.

He had to hurry and find the child.

"Sir?" A brunette on his team interrupted his thoughts, he was a large man in charge of paddling one of the canoes, but now that they had reached a rather large waterfall, there didn't seem to be any safe way around without leaving most of their supplies.

"Yes?"

"There are some savages outside our encampment who are ask for you?" Francis looked just about as confused as the bulky male, no one knew about his trip out here, especially not some Aboriginals.

He got up and followed the man to a handful of some-what haggard looking Aboriginals whose leader was a rather old and wise looking man, yet was also very intimidating in his old age, he reminded France of Rome before his fall.

"How can I help you?" He asked in the language of the majority of the Aboriginals here.

The old man replied in English, which surprised Francis.

"I want to give you something that now belongs to you."

Francis raised an eyebrow at the choice of words. "Please, just follow me."

The group of men turned and Francis made to follow them, one of his team members grabbed his arm in protest but Francis gave them a small reassuring nod before he continued to follow them.

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

They had walked into the dark with no light, yet these men seemed to know exactly where they were going. He suddenly felt very scared and yelped when one of the men patted his shoulder. They had arrived at a small group of teepees, these people were travelers, no wonder they knew a little English.

"Come," the old man commanded as he walked to one of the central teepees, holding the flap open for the blond.

Francis stepped in hesitantly and immediately bolted to attention when he saw what was in the center of the tent.

There, a girl was sleeping, huddled around another smaller mass.

"That is my daughter and..." the old man gestured at the smaller blond boy who was now awake and staring at him with piercing grey-blue marbles, "she had brought him home with her one day, claiming him to be her brother."

"You people..." Francis understood immediately who they were; the western region wasn't one person.

"Why are you giving him to me...?" If they kept him, they had a chance of restoring the land to its previous state, they would be the ones in charge of the history of the land.

"We cannot keep him," Francis protested but the man silenced him, "Chinook made sure of that."

"I don't understand..."

"You'll understand when the time comes." The words pierced his heart.

"If I take him...what will happen to you and your tribe?"

"We will die, like our sons," France flinched. "We have lived until now for the purpose of passing on a next generation for this land. Now we have. Maybe, one day, you will live to understand that. For now, please take the boy and go, before my daughter wakes up."

Francis nodded grimly and stepped towards the boy. He picked up the boy gingerly, and the young boy quietly wrapped his arms around Francis' neck in a hug as they walked off towards the woods. There was an escort waiting for him.

Silence.

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

The boy was quiet to say the least, but for some reason, he was like a lucky charm for them as they travelled farther west. They had made it past the waterfall and would've gone farther but their supplies were running dangerously low. Vowing to return, they returned to New France.

The boy looked around Francis' small house and made himself comfortable in the kitchen.

"Do you want to eat something?" The Frenchman asked, the boy shook his head politely. Francis sighed, this was all he got out of the boy, he was at his wits end! A thought suddenly struck him, "What's your name?"

The small blond seemed to contemplate this as well and shook his head.

Francis smiled, "Well then, I guess you'll need a name?"

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

Matthieu, as the man dubbed him, was a name that came from his crusades. It meant the lord's gift, and that was what the boy was to him. But even though he dotted on the boy and caved to his every whim (although Matthieu barely had any whims), the boy's silence could never be broken.

So one night, Francis was surprised to feel the boy slip out from underneath the blankets and waddle downstairs. He wasn't worried, it showed that the boy was growing, becoming a little defiant. The boy was probably just looking for some food.

That is, until he heard a small crash from his office.

He jolted out of bed, "Matthieu?" He cried, yanking the blankets off him as he rushed downstairs. A faint light spilled across the floor where his office door was, France felt himself shiver, the whole situation seemed a little unearthly. He peeked in and nearly spewed his stomach contents across the floor as he covered his mouth and gagged.

Matthieu was sitting on the small rug in the room, his lips and hands smeared in blood, a mutilated heart balanced in his small hands.

Chinook's heart.

France watched in horror as the boy took another bite out of the thing, small plant sprouts erupting from his mouth as he chewed. A few more bites and the thing was gone, the only remainder of it was the red strip of cloth that lay abandoned on the floor.

Matthieu looked over to him, and for the first time, he smiled.

"Papa!" He bubbled, reaching his arms out as if wanting to be picked up.

The Frenchman backed away into the wall parallel to his office door and slide down it in stupor, still staring at those shockingly clear eyes. The boy gave him a confused cock of the head before getting up himself with a tumble and slowly waddled over.

"Francis?" Grey-blue eyes observed him as small hands tugged at his shirt sleeve; his own hands had found themselves in his hair-pulling at the roots relentlessly.

"I am your Canada, am I not?" France froze.

He looked at the boy, something familiar flashed in those eyes and then they were gone, engulfed by smog.

"Oui..." He heaved with a shaking breath as he reached out for the boy, "You are the Canada for me..."

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

Arthur had taken Matthieu from him or, Matthew as he was now known. The British nation had made that fact painfully clear at the signing session. What ticked him off even more was the fact that he could've kept the boy. It was either him or his other colonies, but his boss had the final say.

He seethed as England watched him sign the papers, "I did not want to do this, Francis." The voice was gentle, remorseful.

"It cannot be helped," France growled, and soon regretted it when he saw a somewhat hurt look flint across the other man's face.

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

Matthew was crying, Francis cradled the boy in his arms, "It's ok Matthew, its ok...You're just going to live with Uncle Arthur for a bit."

"Non! Je n'aime pas l'oncle Arthur!"

Francis chuckled grimly, "Matthew, please, just stay with Arthur for a while and I promise I'll come back for you, ok?"

The boy's eyes scanned his face, "Tu le promets?" The sight was heartbreaking, clear crystals were rolling down the boy's flushed skin, still feathery to the touch.

"Yes. I promise."

Funny thing, he never did.

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

Returning to Europe was bittersweet; he returned to high society-drowning his sorrows with wines that he missed oh so much.

Yet he was heaving with sobs when the Spaniard walked in on him.

"Have you lost your beau?" Antonio was behind him, a firm, comforting hand clasped down on his shoulder.

Francis shook his head, "No. I have not lost anyone."

With a sigh, the other man stepped out in front of him and bent down, looking him straight in the eye. "Lying was never something that you did well, Francis." The sight was heartbreaking, Spain had never seen the man look so distraught before, maybe when Rome died-but never to this degree.

"You seriously loved that savage didn't you?"

"HE WAS NOT A SAVAGE!" The chair he was previously sitting on clattered aside, forgotten. Francis gagged, he had gotten up too fast, his hand flew to his mouth as he doubled over and tried not to spew.

Nothing came out, he was too drained. With a shaky sob he clenched onto the Spaniard's front, muttering that he needed to lie down, needed to go to sleep for a very long time.

Another tear.

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

The land was as lush as he remembered it, although this time, the landscape was littered with little houses.

There was Alfred's house, as new as the day that it was built. The little, green, thatched roof blending oh-so-perfectly into the surroundings. If France had not been here before, he would not have noticed it.

He knocked, politely, and waited a minute or two until it opened. It was Matthew.

"Francis!"

The older man cringed, no French accent remained in the boy's alliteration. The boy looked about 10 years older too, was he really gone for that long? He also looked somewhat relieved, and the Frenchman understood immediately when he heard the crash from inside.

Matthew gestured him in and they headed towards the arguing occurring in the living room.

"You ungrateful little prat! Independence?!" The sound was carnal, Francis had only seen his adopted brother this angry two or three times before, it was rare, and when it did happen, France was glad he wasn't on the receiving end. The atmosphere was tense, and Matthew was visibly flinching at each word being spat between the two. What _was_ Arthur's favorite tea cup lay forgotten on the floor.

"Me and Matthew are old enough to make our own choices now without you imposing some new tax on us!"

"_Matthew and_ _I_!" The British growled, eyes flaring, "And neither of you are old enough! You're too young and foolish to understand!"

"I'm not young anymore, Arthur! We've grown up! You're just not here enough to!--"

"Don't you bring up that excuse--"

They finally noticed, Matthew was crying.

The room fell into an awkward silence, filled only with the half sobs of the quivering boy.

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

Francis had done it, he had helped Britain's boy gain his independence. He later realized that this was like some twisted sort of revenge, Arthur took away his Matthew and he was to rip England's son away from him.

"You--you bloody wanker!" Arthur was seething in front of him, he looked tired. He _was_ tired. The shorter Nation took an unstable step towards him, "You...!"

The man stumbled; Francis caught him before any harm could be done. No such luck, he felt a punch land on his face. Blood poured from the unintentional bite to his lips and he yelped, but he didn't let go, he couldn't.

England collapsed against him, "I'm so sick of this...so fucking sick of it...Why...?" Foggy emeralds observed him as a shaking fist clenched at his lapels, "Why do you always have to fight against me?!"

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

"Matthew wants to leave me."

The statement startled him; France looked over the rim of his newspaper somewhat quizzically at the British who was calmly sipping his tea as if nothing mattered. It mattered though, he could tell by the way the cup and saucer clattered together upon impact.

"Et...? Ton point...?"

"Don't you care...?" The words were soft, reluctant, "Your Matthew's cutting all ties from us."

The image of a bloody baby smiling up at him, _"Papa!"_

He chuckled, eyes cast back towards his newspaper, "He is not mine anymore."

"DON'T YOU CARE?!" The paper was ripped out of his hands as Arthur stood, the table clattered in rebellion, "Don't you care...?!" The roar sounded shaken, unsure.

Oh how the prideful Lion recoils.

The taller blond stood, sighing as he bent down to pick up the ruffled sheets of paper, "Now look what you did, I thought I taught you better."

"FUCK, Francis! Look at me for once and tell me the truth!"

Francis looked at him, really looked at him, and saw why England truly was shaken this time around. He sighed and stepped over to the younger male, who's eyes were gaining an uncharacteristic gleam.

"England...This game of yours--"

Arthur let out a muffled cry of protest as his eyes widened in alarm, unwilling to let France finish his sentence, they both knew what he was going to say.

Francis bent down instead, butterfly kisses on too chapped lips.

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

Canada's 100 Days, a point in history that no Canadian (or any other nationality) will ever forget. At least, in France's mind.

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

World War II, England and France's leaders are debating around a large table that probably brings back memories of Arthur's long gone King and his Round Table.

"I'm expecting a lot from Matthew this time around," Arthur looked stiff, shifting around slowly from side to side.

Francis nodded grimly, they both knew this war was going to be different, they could feel in their bones a chilling air that sapped their reserves. If anything, they needed Canada's previous success more than anything during this war, but even then, it might not be enough. "They grow up fast, non?"

"Yea..." He replied, it came out like a wil-o-wisp, breathy, shaky.

Francis looked over, a tear already trailing down the British man's cheek.

He wipes it off gently with his thumb and kisses the others away.

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

"Matthew?"

No reply, the house was silent.

Kumajirou pads up to him and growls, a small, threatening sound; uncertain.

Francis feels sadness and regret seep through his body like a tea bag tainting hot water with its contents. Ignoring the somewhat large bear that snaps at his heels, he trod over to Matthew's bedroom.

There, the boy is staring at his wide windows; the outside world obscured by large, velvet curtains. Although, France has a feeling the boy doesn't want to see the beautiful autumn leaves on this October day.

"Matthew...?"

The boy doesn't even acknowledge him. Francis walks past the protective bear and plops down on the somewhat large bed. "Je suis ton père," he says somewhat authoritively, the words taste like the bitterest wine.

Matthew shifts, only slightly, his eyes fogging up as he uttered daggers, "I have no Father."

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

"You should apologize to the boy." Francis tilts his head up from where they were before in his hands to observe the Spaniard.

"How can I? I've left his country in shambles."

"You should apologize to him as a person, Francis, not as a country."

France lets out a shaky sigh and uncoils himself from his heap. Antonio is right, as always, the man was wise beyond his years at times.

"I'll go talk to him," he repeated, his voice hollow, "Right."

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

The bear was outside, fuck, the bear was outside.

Francis was at the gate, contemplating if he'd be missing a chunk out of Paris if he decided to step in.

They stared at each other, a growl, neither sure who it actually came from.

He made a shooing sound, hoping that Kumajirou was gentler then he looked. The bear seemed to listen and got up, trodded away to chew on a shrub; interest diverted,_ magnifique_.

France sighed in relief and shuffled his way towards the door, only to notice that the door was open. Did Matthew usually leave the door open when he let his pet out?

Not letting it bother him, he slipped inside quietly. It was dark, hushed, he shivered when a thought brushed past, "No, not Matthew."

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

The walk there was excruciating, the closer he got, the more his senses went on edge. He felt nausea coil in his belly like a snake, whipping out when he finally got to Matthew's bedroom door.

Someone was moaning, the voice was deep, much too deep to be Matthew's. The other voice was muffled, strained, Matthew. Anger jolted through him so suddenly he pulled back, only to have grief wash over him.

"Matt, are you…sure?"

"Nhh…Alfred, _please_…"

The noises that followed were interpretable by nature, mixed in with desperate whispers of "love you", he felt his knees go weak.

France doesn't barge in like he wants to, France doesn't rip the blond _brat_ off his own little boy, France doesn't beat said country into a pulp (because we all know, he really can if he wanted). Francis turns and leaves in silence.

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

"Hello?"

"Arthur? I need your help."

"Spain? You haven't called me—"

"Yea, I know, but this is urgent."

"Can't you ask France or something?!"

"That's the problem."

"What?" Arthur felt a pit grow in his stomach, "What's wrong with Francis?"

"How long does it take you to get to Paris?"

"Why?"

Spain sighed, a heavy sound, "just…just get over here, ok?"

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

He was pacing, Spain _never_ paces, or at least, not that Arthur knows of. Upon spotting him, Antonio grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him upstairs towards where England could only presume to be where France was, all the while muttering something about, "France locking himself up," and "Canada."

The feeling in his stomach grew and he halted, jerking his wrist out of Spain's grip. The dark-haired man stops, turns and observes him.

"Look…I know—"

"**No.** You don't know."

Spain doesn't say anything for a moment, but England can see anger in those dark pits, long buried hatred and resentment. Words that could be uttered, but shouldn't hang between them and Arthur knows, Spain will never forgive him if he walked away.

**.,x.{~}.x,.**

The heavy oak door was locked when usually it'd be open to all visitors, all were welcomed. Spain cast a look his way that clearly said "I told you so." All Arthur could do was glare back somewhat resentfully and knock.

No one responded, "Look you git, I know you're in there!"

For a few stretched seconds, he felt rather foolish for yelling at the door, but then there was a click and it was open. They both looked at the crack rather curiously, than at each other, "I think he wants you to go in."

England nodded, pushing the door open the whole way before shutting it close, and there was France descending upon him like a helpless animal. And for a second, England melts in the heat, the need and the pain, only to push the other man away.

He sees that Francis has been crying from the swollen eyes; that he's been hurting himself from the way his arms are stained with small splotches of red at the wrist; and that the man is dead from the way that he desperately tries to kiss him again, but that does not stop him from yelling at him.

"WHAT IN BLOODY BLAZES IS WRONG WITH YOU?!"

The older man freezes, looking even more hurt then he possibly could've, and England regrets their history together, for all the words that were spat between the two of them, for how it affects his behavior towards his once-brother.

"England…Oh god…_Arthur, I__** love**__ him._"

France does not need to say who _he_ is as a wave of jealously and regret washes over the island nation, but the thoughts are snuffed out when he feels France heave into his somewhat open arms. They stay like that for awhile, even after Spain gathers the courage to open the door and leave somewhat somberly; even after the sky changes colour and Arthur's legs start turning to jelly.

And finally, _finally_, France moves because he cannot hold his weight up anymore and half-slumps to the floor. England watches, unable to do anything as the other nation starts laughing at his own sorry state. Then, just as suddenly, the laughs become wretched sobs as the man grabbed him around the waist and buried his face into Arthur's chest.

"I'm sorry, Arthur, I'm so sorry..."

**.,x.{End}.x,.**

Read my notes if you want to figure out what's going on in this story.

**1)** I would like to explain the title, Stockholm Syndrome occurs between a captor(s) and their victim(s). It usually occurs when the person isn't aware of it, because it is basically, when you're under intense conditions like kidnapping / bank heist, the smallest acts of kindness from your captors will make you regard them in a more positive manner.

A really good example of this (which I got from the all mighty wiki) was during this bank heist where they were locked up for DAYS, and when they were getting out, the victims were _protecting_ their captors. Reason? The captors let them do simple things like go to the washroom and such.

So I wrote this story in the sense that France's heart was captured by Canada since a long time ago, but the acts of kindness the boy / previous nation offered to him over the years only made his love for him grow.

**2)** I'm foggy on the Canadian/World history since I haven't taken it for 3 years, but I'm hoping it's right? Just correct me if it's wrong. Also, I don't full out state what time it is, you guy'lls have to do a lot of implying by yourselves cause I wanna keep a natural flow to the story.

P.S. The game that France refers to (That Britain is "playing") is the fact that I imply that Arthur only took Matthew away from him to vie for France's attention. That is also why England seems so much more upset at France for "fighting against me"

**3) **Btw, since there only seemed to be territories between aboriginals instead of countries in (ALL OF, that means south AND North) America during the Pre-Columbian Era, I just made it so that the giant mass of land was being represented by four nation personifications. Each was a direction of a possible major wind.

The North personification is the one France meets, The south is the one Spain ends up fighting, and the east is where Britain started colonizing. I made the west personification into a tribe because it seemed fitting, since the western aboriginals were travelers.(Buffalo and bison hunting lolz)

Also, the first people in America were believed to have come through the Alaska / Russian strait anyways, and that's basically north-west. So that's why the north is the oldest, east is the second oldest and south is the youngest representation. They all came from a group of travelers from the west that travelled from the top of America to the bottom. And yes, I know some of the oldest culture in the world is in South America, but that doesn't mean that there weren't at least some straddlers up in North America either during the same time. (If you have any solid proof to dispute this, please tell me and I'll find a way to work around it)

**4) **No, eating a heart isn't typical protocol for a new nation 3" I wrote that to prompt that all countries die and are reborn differently in this story, that's why France was all like "He knew his death would never be that beautiful."

Besides, it adds to the angst! :D


End file.
